


Fine Tuning

by orphan_account



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Deaf Clint Barton, M/M, Reunions, Sign Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-06
Updated: 2015-01-06
Packaged: 2018-03-06 11:01:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3132062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint wakes up inside a very familiar car, which means Phil is close by. To be close by, Phil has to be alive. If only he hadn't lost his damn hearing aids, this all might be a lot easier.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fine Tuning

Losing his hearing aids is  _so_  not Clint’s favourite thing to do. Ever, really, but especially now. Now being the moment he wakes up on an unidentifiable aircraft with three pre-teens looking down at him, mouths moving frantically—too frantically for his eyes to have a hope of lip reading and if they think he’s going to argue back at them when he can’t hear what the fuck is going on they all have another thing coming.  So instead Clint makes a more pointed show of ignoring them, trying to get his eyes to focus; the fact that his vision isn’t razor sharp leads him to believe he’s been drugged, or suffering from a concussion but he sees the proud silver S.H.I.E.L.D. crest emblazoned into the walls of the aircraft and, yeah, that doesn’t always mean safe—not with HYDRA on their asses twenty-four-seven these days—but usually S.H.I.E.L.D. doesn’t mean enemy.

Usually.

When he looks a little closer, Clint realises his immediate surroundings are more familiar than he had thought. The scent of soft leather, of recognisable cologne… Clint hooks his fingers over the edges of the door and is met with the cold, cherry-red finish smooth under his fingertips.

Lola.

_Phil._

Clint frowns, trying to assess the three people in front of him for potential threats. Two women and a man, all early-twenties. He could have all three dead and off the carrier in less than five minutes. But they have Lola and that has to mean something.

Fingers sharp and precise, he begins to sign. It might prove futile, but it might not.

_What’s going on?_

The three continue to look at him, but their mouths aren’t moving anymore.

And then one of them says something, slowly, mouth elongating every syllable.

_You’re deaf?_

Clint nods.

The two woman look at each other, one looks puzzled, as if she’s faced with a parentless child that she doesn’t know how to deal with, but the other one raises her two hands and begins to sign back.

_We found you here, unconscious. Are you with S.H.I.E.L.D.?_

Clint pauses, glances around for anything he could use as a weapon if it came to it. He looks down at his nail-bitten, slightly bruised hands. They’ll have to do.

Clint nods, steeling himself for whatever may come.

The woman who can sign sends her male compadre off for god-knows-what and Clint heaves himself out of Lola, mindful not to scuff the interior with his boots.

 _You’re bleeding_.

So he is.

 _You’re S.H.I.E.L.D. too?_ Clint asks and she nods, the non-signer must ask her to translate and they have a short conversation that Clint ends with a frustrated wave of his hand and a pointed look, one he likes to give Kate when she’s asking too many question but it usually proves useless on her. These two are better.  _Who’s your CO?_

_Director Ph—_

Clint can’t hear it but both women look up to the balcony above what appears to be a small lab space.

The pieces slot together more neatly than Clint expected.

Lola is on this plane because Phil is on this plane.

Because Phil is alive, apparently, and descending the staircase.

 _You don’t look dead_. Clint signs, huffing out a breath through his nose. 

It's not anger that courses through Clint's veins; it's a dull sort of ache—frustrated and quite bitter, honestly. 

_If I could have told you I would have._

Clint takes a deep, steadying breath and turns slightly, giving Phil his shoulder to converse with the young woman instead.

_You have a name?_

_Simmons._

_Clint. Do I have orders here?_

Simmons begins talking—to Phil, Clint assumes—so Clint busies himself looking at the ground and not thinking about how heavy his chest feels. Phil lied to him. Lied to them all. He’s alive and well and looks absolutely gor—completely beside the point because he  _lied_.

 _We don’t even know how you got onto the plane_.

_That makes two of us. Ask P—Coulson if he could drop me off at JFK or something._

_We’re in Paraguay_.

Clint sighs and looks at Simmons for only a second or two more before he turns to face Phil.

_What the fuck is going on?_

_A lot, but right now? I don’t know._

_My last mission was off the coast of Tasmania. I was in a boat. How did I end up here?_

Phil just shakes his head and says something to Simmons and the other two. They head into the lab and Phil watches them go, not turning back to Clint until the glass doors swish shut behind them.

_I’m sorry._

_You should be._ Clint feels as though his fingers are trembling and has his suspicions confirmed when Phil wraps his own warm, soft hands around Clint’s. Clint wants to yank them away, wants to yell for answers and scream at Phil for abandoning him. But Clint’s chest feels more at ease than it has in months and he lets himself sag against Phil for a moment. He draws back to sign  _I’m so mad at you right now_.

Phil nods, ushering him upstairs and over to the bar. Phil explains the situation with Fury, the dying, the coming back, Tahiti  _and_  T.A.H.I.T.I., and it becomes a touch more difficult for Clint to be angry. Just a touch. 

Simmons and the boy, Fitz, arrive with a hearing aid. It’s smaller than any model Clint’s ever used before and Simmons explains the way it works to Phil who signs the explanation to Clint until it’s clicked into place and starts picking up sound so crisp Clint actually takes a moment to listen to his own breathing, and Phil’s. Mostly Phil’s. And what a glorious sound that is.

“Thanks,” Clint says, nodding at the two science-techs. “Any ideas how I managed to get inside a moving plane yet?”

“Not yet.”

“You’re British?”

“Yes.” Simmons nods, big smile, quite good teeth. He never even imagined she’d be British.

“Huh.”

“Can I have a moment alone with Agent Barton?”

“You’re not just gonna call me Clint, sir?”

Phil frowns at Clint while the others make themselves scarce.

“Are we okay, Clint?”

“I don’t know.”

Phil sets his hand down on Clint’s wrist, “I’m not sorry I lied to you. With everything that has happened with HYDRA it wasn't safe for any of us, least of all you. The fewer people who know I'm back, the better. But I am glad that you know now. I wish you’d have turned up miraculously on my Bus months ago.”

“That's something, I guess. And, you know, I get why you had to lie. I’m not happy about it but its SHIELD and with everything going on right now maybe it was the best call to make. But I’m still mad at you and I’m still reeling a little.”

“Maybe you should get some rest.”

“Try’na get me into bed, Phil?”

“I never had to try very hard before.”

“Did you just call me easy?” Clint asks, cocking his head to one side. Voice teetering on amused and indignant.

Phil offers up one of his trademark non-smiles and tilts his head, as if considering.

Clint is a little easy, it’s true. But it’s not really necessary to bring that up  _right_  now.

“You can have my bunk, I have to contact Hill, see if anyone else might know what happened.”

“You sure you don’t want me to talk to her? She’s kind of the Avengers' handler now that's she's working for Tony, you know.”

A flare of something green-eyed and possessive flashes over Phil’s face; Clint can’t contain his smirk.

“No, you should sleep.”

“Maybe you’ll join me when you’re done?” And what the hell, Clint lets himself sound hopeful. 

“Maybe I will.” 


End file.
